


Falling for My Everything

by wingsdestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, POV Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsdestiel/pseuds/wingsdestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel reflects on his relationship with Dean, and they are forced to talk about their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling for My Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Destiel Ficlet Challenge on tumblr.

If it hadn’t been for Dean Winchester, I would be telling a very different story. In fact, if it had been up to me, the  _old_  me, the one who had never tasted a double bacon cheeseburger or listened to  _The Song Remains the Sam_ e all the way through, I wouldn’t have much of a story to tell. I was content to watch over the earth in silence, to let the people and things below wander about in their chaotic movements. I didn’t understand the  _purpose_  of it all, while my siblings seemed to have an intuitive grasp on things I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Even then, before I had ever been confused by one of Dean’s unfamiliar pop culture references, I knew how it felt to be lost. Existence was an inside joke, and I seemed to be the only one on the outside. 

Still, I served heaven to the best of my ability. There was something almost honorable in my stillness, perhaps a sense of pride for containing the strange and blasphemous urges to which I have always been susceptible; for millennia I wanted nothing more than to wring out the grief from the world, and for millennia I watched with carefully forged stoicism, aware that my compassion exceeded that which was acceptable for my kind. I learned early on in my existence that I was flawed, and when I could not change it, I found ways to hide it.

When I was named as one of those whose mission it was to raise the Righteous Man from hell, I wondered why God would send a broken angel to rescue a broken man. I considered confessing my irreverent thoughts to my superiors, but I was too selfish to do so. I wanted to prove to myself that I could fulfill my cause, that I was worthy of serving heaven.

It was not, as they say, love at first sight. Once Dean was successfully saved, I still had to convince him to follow the path that God had chosen for him, and I am ashamed to say that at the time he was simply a pawn, even for me. My honor was at stake, and he and his insolence stood in my way. He was stubborn, irrational, and cynical. I hated him.

And yet I admired certain things about him. His devotion to his brother, for example, was something I understood through my devotion to heaven, and respected deeply. He questioned my motives and demanded information, and although it certainly made my job more difficult, it also demonstrated intelligence and thoroughness. When he urged me to utilize free will, I could tell it was not only for his own benefit – he could see my true nature, crushed beneath thousands of years of obedience. I had freed him from his chains, and it was time for him to release me from mine.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when I fell in love with Dean, and I’m not sure that such a moment exists on its own. I just know that over time– a particularly miniscule amount of it considering the span of my existence– my reality was rewritten, and Dean became the center of my universe.

It was never particularly surprising to me that I “fell” in such a manner; I am convinced that I have been defective by angel standards from the very beginning, and perhaps the most ungodly thing an angel can do is to love a human the way I love Dean. It has nothing to do with him being a man, as he likes to imply, but rather the fact that my love for him is selfish beyond anything I have ever allowed myself to experience. It has nothing to do with simple admiration for my Father’s creations, as I tried to convince myself in the beginning. It has everything to do with keeping Dean to myself, protecting him at all costs, and showing him the love he deserves. It is a jealous love, with far too much grit and fire and need to possibly be considered holy. And given my predisposition to emotional weakness, falling – and falling in love – was inevitable. I didn’t stand a chance.

The only thing that surprised me was that Dean loved me back. Of course, I sensed it through our bond – subtle changes the exchange of energy between his soul and my grace– but I didn’t mention it to him for a long time. I was bracing myself for the possibility that I was simply imagining things. When I finally decided to confess my feelings, things shifted into place much more easily than I ever could have imagined. At the time, I wondered if Dean was humoring me as a symptom of guilt. But Dean, being a man of few words, told me things with his soul that couldn’t be anything but genuine. He was starved for love, but unsatisfied with loving those who did not know his entire self, both the good parts and the bad. He still didn’t think he deserved to be loved so completely. I disagreed, and even now I am trying to convince him. I will never give up on that.

He feels guilty, he says, that I lost my grace. He’s certain that were it not for him, I would still be an angel, grace and all, not just ‘his angel’, as he says. I am perfectly content being his angel. I would not give up my free will to restore my place in the host, and I certainly would not give up Dean. As much of an adjustment as it was, becoming human, a part of me thinks it was always meant to happen. Perhaps my Father created me this way on purpose, and this has been his plan all along. And if His plan was for me to live on earth with Dean and Sam, these wonderful people who love me and care for me more than my siblings ever did, then I know that He loves me.

 

It’s a warm night in August, and I’m in the kitchen making myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for a midnight snack, even though it’s three in the morning. I was recently told that the term ‘midnight snack’ still applies, as long as it’s after midnight, though Sam and Dean disagree on whether the appropriate time to switch to the term ‘breakfast’ is four or five. 

I drop the knife into the sink, flinching when it clatters just a little too loud, and sure enough, Dean wanders into the kitchen, squinting in the light. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers, and his hair is sticking up in all different directions. I can’t help smiling. 

“Babe?” he says, and though I know it’s silly, my heart skips a beat. “What’re you doing up?”

“I had a nightmare,” I admit, and take a bite of my sandwich. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

“Well, great job on that,” he mutters, but massages my shoulder on the way to the fridge. “You okay? Wanna talk about it?” He takes out the milk and pours two glasses, sliding one over to me.

At first I assume that his offer to talk is just his way of being courteous – it is three in the morning, after all, and regardless of our close relationship, Dean is not one for talking about feelings – but after I take a sip of milk and another bite of my sandwich, he’s looking at me expectantly. “It was a really stupid dream,” I say, and shrug. “It was just… upsetting to me, and I couldn’t get back to sleep afterwards.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “That’s generally how nightmares work, Cas. That doesn’t count as talking about it.”

I sigh and pretend to be absorbed in my sandwich. It’s hard for me to discuss my insecurities with Dean, because he refuses to do so with me. In fact, he pretends to have no insecurities at all, and seems to have constructed his outward personality with that very pretense as the foundation. It is, however, a pretense, and his low self-esteem is visible to ‘anyone with eyes,’ as Sam once said when I confided in him about Dean’s emotional distance. He suggested couples counseling as a way to get Dean to open up, because ‘If there’s anyone who needs therapy, it’s Dean.’ I was tempted to make a snide comment about that coming from a recovering demon blood addict, but I realized that in a way, Sam seemed to be his own therapist. He was always much better at processing his feelings than Dean, and didn’t even attempt to hide his fears. I feel guilty for it, but as Dean leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, I find myself wishing that some of his brother’s candor had rubbed off on him. 

I remain silent, hoping that Dean will lose interest and go back to bed, but his eyes are fixed on me, filled with a careful concern that seems to be second nature for him. With years of lies and secrets between himself and his brother, I realize, it is. He’s had too much practice. 

“Gimme that,” he says, and snatches the other half of my sandwich. It’s cut diagonally (the ‘ _right_  way’, as he taught me), and he starts eating from a corner. “Still too much jelly, man." 

“I like it that way,” I say, and shrug. “You got some on your face, though.”

He wipes his forearm across his mouth. “Get it?”

“Yes, but your arm’s going to be sticky now.”

“Don’t change the subject. What was your dream about?”

“As I said, the subject was… trivial. So please don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He just raises his eyebrows and waits for me to go on.

“You cheated on me,” I say, and busy myself with studying the grout in the backsplash.

To my surprise, he smirks, and shakes his head. “Why?”

“How should I know, Dean? I would not understand your desires to indiscriminately copulate with women, theoretical or otherwise.”

“So it was a chick?” he says. “I’m surprised you felt threatened.”

“Dean. The gender of the person in question is irrelevant. I felt betrayed.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” he says, staring at the floor. He pauses and looks up at me. “You know that would never happen, right?”

“I know, Dean,” I say, though, perhaps aided by my dream, my mind can still manufacture scenarios in which it would.

He puts his glass down and takes the last bite of his –  _my_  – sandwich. “Besides, that’s got to be, like,” he says with his mouth full, “enough to get me sent back to hell right away. Cheating on an angel.” 

I scoff. “I’m no longer an angel, Dean. The sin would be equivalent to infidelity to any other person.”

In one stride he has his arms around my waist and his lips pressed to my forehead. “I know. I just meant 'cause you’re perfect." 

“I have many flaws. Your argument does not make sense.” I say, though I can feel myself blushing. “And you have peanut butter breath.”

“So do you, smartass.” He lowers his head so our foreheads are pressed together and our noses are touching. I expect him to move away fairly quickly, but he simply closes his eyes and rubs the tip of his nose against mine. “After everything you’ve been through,” he says, “the scariest thing you can think of is relationship problems?”

“Of course not. The scariest thing I can think of is you getting killed on a hunt. I’m terrified every time you leave the house.”

I can practically feel the guilt radiating from him, and he mutters, “Comes with the job.”

“I know. And you and Sam are great hunters. But that doesn’t stop me from being terrified of losing you. Or from feeling useless.”

He pulls away to look at me. “You’re not useless,” he says, starting off the speech he’s made a hundred times by now. “But y’know, there are some jobs where I just can’t take you with me. I can’t do it. If I died on the job, you could… I don’t know, take up beekeeping or something. If you died on my watch, I don’t think I could live with myself.”

“Dean Winchester,” I say, and it comes out even more stern than I intended. “Don’t you dare think that I could just move on like that. Like you’re nothing to me.”

He looks taken aback, his mouth hanging slightly open and his eyebrows knitted together.

“You are  _everything_ ,” I say. “Everything.”

Dean is looking down at the floor with the guilty expression of a scolded child. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says. “I just thought, you know, you’ve been around for so long, my whole life has been like a millisecond for you, so I figured it didn’t really matter all that much." 

I run my fingers through his hair. “All that time didn’t amount to much. I’ve only just started living. I’d appreciate it if I didn’t lose you now.”

He attempts to smile. “I’ll try my damnedest not to die anytime soon.” He pauses, and looks like he wants to say something else.

“Dean?”

“You’re… You’re my everything too, Cas. I mean, you and Sammy. So if you had that dream because you thought I’d go looking for something else, it’s not gonna happen. For the first time in a long time, I feel like… I’m not really missing anything. I know I got a lot of shit buried deep down, and I can’t expect anything to fix that. But if there’s anything that could, it’s you.” 

“Dean,” is the only word I can choke out, because suddenly I am crying. It feels so ridiculously good to be human, to be standing in a kitchen at three in the morning, to taste peanut butter, to feel tired and vulnerable and  _loved_.

He wraps me in his arms, and unlike previous times, I feel no embarrassment. There is something different in his embrace. He is not shielding me, hiding my weakness from the world as he used to. He is welcoming me home.

“My angel,” he whispers. “It’s okay, my angel.” 

I smile through my tears.


End file.
